He was miserably
dressed.
"You--You must not come here and spy on me," she said hoarsely, all out of
breath. She stood before him, breathing hard, angry, with flashing eyes.
His lips parted but he could not speak; he did not know which way to turn.
"Do you hear me?"
"Yes--Have you been sick, perhaps? You haven't been out for two weeks now;
of course, I don't _know_ that you haven't, but--"
His helpless words, his wretched embarrassment, moved her; her anger died
down, she was again on the verge of tears, and, deeply humiliated, she
said:
"Dear Coldevin, forgive me!"
She asked him to forgive her! He did not know what to say to this, but
answered abstractedly:
"Forgive you? We won't speak about that--But why are you crying? I wish I
hadn't met you--"
"But I am glad I met you," she said. "I wanted to meet you; I think of you
always, but I never see you--I long for you often."
"Well, we won't speak about that, Miss Aagot. You know we have settled our
affair. I can only wish you every happiness, every possible happiness."
Coldevin had apparently regained his self-control; he commenced even to
speak about indifferent matters: Was not this a fearful storm? God knew
how the ships on the high seas were faring!
She listened and answered.
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